The Simple Way of Poison
by black fungi
Summary: Illúvatar has a weird sense of humor. His Valar are not amused, and neither are His Children. SLASH


Title: The Simple Way of Poison   
Author/pseudonym: black fungi   
Email address:   
Rating: R   
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas, Aragorn/Arwen, Legolas, Manwë/Melkor, Manwë/Varda 

Status: In-Progress  
Date: 06/30/06 (update)  
Archive: Yes  
Archive author:  
Archive email address:  
Series/Sequel:  
Category: Angst, Drama, First Times, Unresolved Sexual Tension  
Author's website:

Disclaimers:  
My name is not Tolkien, and I am not channeling his spirit. I claim only authorship of this story, which is written simply for mindless entertainment... STRICTLY a non-profit endeavor.

Notes:  
Do note the following for easier reading:  
**...words...** - Indicates words are stressed (bold)  
_...words..._ - Indicates unspoken thoughts (italics)  
...words... - Indicates mind-speak (underlined)  
**ff dot net unfortunately does not accept asterisks, double slashes or square brackets for the above respective indicants. Bummer...  
**

Summary:  
Illúvatar has a weird sense of humor; His Valar are not amused, and neither are His Children.

Warnings:  
Incest, Rape/Non-con, Silmarillion-referenced, Slash

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**ACT I: The Beginning is Half the Whole**

_"Each time we love,_

_We turn a nearer and a broader mark_

_To that keen archer, Sorrow, and he strikes."_

_-- Alexander Smith (1830-1867) --_

"'Tis a terrible thing; one they calleth love."

Startled from her quiet reflections, the lithe figure by the window spun to confront the speaker; silver, long tresses swept wildly about her pale, drawn face. Panic and fear momentarily flashed in her eyes, then replaced by anger and shame having caught unaware at her time of weakness. She raised her left hand to brush from her eyes the strange wetness that was making paths down her cheeks while her right was raised in a manner similar to one warding off potential attacks that might cause harm to her person. And that the fact that **that** hand now held an ominous glow, hinted that the owner felt threatened enough to brace herself and actually call upon her powers.

Now the gesture was not lost on the said speaker, but he read it as unnecessary as it was curious, for here in the land of infinite peace, one does not need to parry or fight any Evils. Here in Valinor, **here** in Taniquetil, there is **no** Evil. He thought to move towards her to apologize and, with it, extend a measure of comfort and warm assurance that it was not his heart's intent to intrude on her solitude or upset her with his bold appearance in her private chamber. Yet instinct advised him otherwise, and so he stayed in the shadows, allowing a slight dip of his head to convey his silent regret.

Only after discerning the identity of the intruder, did she allow herself to relax; the regal composure befitting her status returned. Then, in a tone plainly revealed her displeasure, she spoke: "**Thou** wouldst bring such perversity to lofty heights, my friend."

"There **is** love, and there is **love**." He shrugged helplessly as if they explained everything.

_How **so** convenient,_ she bit back the acid in her words fueled more by fear for failing to keep her already raw emotions well in check in front of him. Slowly, she unclenched her fists, not realizing when she had them in a tight grip; her nails already digging sharply into her palms. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she fought to center herself and expelled a low puff before continuing, "The love thou speaketh hath no place here."

"Love heeds no rule; it cares little for time or place for the heart hath its reasons that reasons canst not understand." A small teasing smile tugged at those perfect lips in answer, and to her absolute chagrin, the well-deserved anger that was steadily building up inside her was suddenly and plainly displaced.

It had never fail to amaze her how a simple smile could transform the face before her. His facial expression was usually one of quiet thoughtfulness, and it was rare (if ever) that it would shift severely to that of fury, passion, joy or grief for it was known he felt and cared for nothing. In their esteemed circle of fourteen (discounting Melkor), he was the least likely to be swayed by emotions, be they true or false; instead he turned to his stanch faith in the bare cold facts and good sense. He could always be counted on to lend a firm voice of reason and wisdom to those who seek it, and his rational and sagacious view of things to be had influenced their many decisions in the matters of Arda - even though he cared little to attend any councils of the Valar.

It was his inability to feel that gave him his strength, to keep a cool head in the midst of chaos and to speak his views, true to the truths. He was cruel as he was just in his judgments, and for a time, he thought his services were enough to keep the land in fair harmony. But his mind did not stayed idle in content for he later learnt that his strength was also his weakness, evident in his failure to connect well with others, and he knew far too well how it could present an opportunity to darker beings who would use this against all that was good if only he'd let them.

That he now chose to wear a smile on his face was a reflexive response at best - learned, not ingrained by nature. It was a poor mimicry of emotions not quite understood or embraced but methodologically calculated on its appropriateness of the situation in assisting to draw a more advantageous and yet agreeable position. With one of his simple smiles, he must have deduced earlier on that more would be receptive to his inquisitiveness when put at ease and thus, indirectly helped him in his cause for unity amongst the Eldar and the Valar. And so he taught himself to smile and laugh where it was expected of him and shunned all mannerisms that prompted ill feelings.

Sad really. She knew he would have been a gifted student if only his emoting had been heartfelt and sincere. Alas, it was outside his ambition, as it was with his lack of hunger to pound that into an unfair advantage and make himself lord over them; he too could have been a more powerful master if only he realized the physical and emotional effect he had on those around him... _Aye, love indeed is power; he hath a way so to control, to rapture imprisoned souls,_ she lamented.

For all his wisdom, he cannot understand why many (Elves and Maiar alike) had fawned over his person, and while it had first alarmed him into thinking that the occupants of Valinor may be in dire need of a healer (an utterly preposterous thought that could have only came to him in somewhat panicked confusion), he had calmly accepted and attributed this curious behavior to be yet another oddity that separated him from the others after having no other reason that he could pacify his mind with.

She had seen how the Firstborn literally falling at his feet as they tried to win his undivided affections and how he forever remained oblivious to their advances. _A fool!_ Oh, for **half** his wisdom, even **she** could understand why her own husband would stray - For one who was most reluctant to assume a fana, he was achingly beautiful in body and even lovelier in spirit, and incredibly and stupidly naïve.

While his famed beauty drew them close like moth to flame (for the light of Ilúvatar too never left his face), it was that devilling innocence of his that unwittingly drove the multitudes right onto the palm of his hand. Pure, untainted and untried, he extruded an air of vulnerability that wrenched from one a feeling of over-protectiveness over his person. One could easily forget that he was one of the more powerful Valar and he needed no protector.

Ulmo, Lord of Waters and King of the Sea, needed no one. Period.

Yet it did not stop them from pledging their never-ending love and their feä to him or making complete fools out of themselves, and she found a long time ago in disgust that she too was not altogether immune to his unsuspecting charm.

Looking at him now hurt her. Great shame trickled in as she remembered how strongly she had desired him before she had her heart sworn to her husband and how the fool had flippantly rebuffed her love, claiming she would never find happiness with anyone she seek to possess: least of all him. But he had let her down gently enough, as gently as he could she supposed for someone whose unbeating heart was carved out in mithril. He bluntly confessed his apparent lack of knowledge to make a life happy for her and his concern that she would one day be overcome by bitterness and resentment for allowing herself to be led blind by notions of love.

Of the most ungrateful creature, he had the audacity to refuse her love!

Looking at him hurt her **most** and how her ears **burned** at his patronizing words of reason and wisdom, rolling smoothly off from his tongue; both she need not nor want. It was his **reason** and **wisdom**, his belief that they undermined all else, that had cost her her love. "Thy prattle wears my patience thin. Speak thy will, then leave me to my solitude." With that, she turned away and looked back out the window; her sight reluctantly returned to the scene below that had caught her attention before she was rudely interrupted.

Eru, she learnt, was not above playing cruel tricks on the Valar. She had turned her eyes away from Ulmo to escape the torment of his beauty and undisguised innocence, to protect her heart, only to have her eyes assaulted and scorched by an abomination of an unnatural and repulsive act below, and her heart shattered into million pieces again. When the absurdity of her predicament finally struck her, she let out a strangled laugh.

They were still there, lying in the gardens, limbs twined around sweaty bodies glistening in moonlight. Moving to a rhythm only they could hear, their hips grated against the other, slamming mercilessly with each thrust. The momentum quickened to an almost maddening pace. It was not before long that each succumbed to the final throes of passion, and they lay sated and unmoving, one atop the other.

_Dare he presume to scorn **Us** in this manner!_ It choked her to see him flaunt how he brought **him** to his knees, how the **mighty** King of Arda surrendered to his partner's perverted passion, in all adoring childlike trust. _**He** **trusts** **thee**! Off! Get away now, whore!_

Shock jolted her out of her rage when one of the bodies moved as if in response to her mental anguish, and she stood silent and unbelieving she had screamed those words aloud. The darker of the two turned his sight upwards, trying to catch the hidden eyes of whom he knew was watching, and as he did, his lips curled into a cruel smile, taunting her. Straightening his arms, he lifted away from his partner. His actions had caused some distress to the latter, and he immediately remedied it with butterfly kisses on the trembling flesh while making his way down, stopping just above the groin level. He hovered for a few seconds and in a deliberate show, shamelessly engulfed the flaccid member, eliciting a throaty moan from his partner.

Oh, his black, black heart sniggered victoriously.

_Off! He is **mine**!_ she screamed again as the last restraint on her temper failed and broke loose. Ruthlessly she pushed her thoughts past his mental barriers, giving absolutely no concern how those barriers protested against her violent intrusion and how it must have hurt him when they were forcibly torn down. If anything, she relished the thought of inflicting pain to that insufferable beast. If thou hurt him--

--Then naught thou canst do. He lovest me, as he trusts me **completely**, an answering voice in her head hissed in pain and ire at her sudden mental assault. His cruel mouth twisted into a weird caricature of a smile, knowing his words must have stung her because they were true: the King would not stand for anyone plotting harm against his person. He gave a pause, and then if it were possible, the insidious smile grew wider as he drove an invisible dagger deeper into her heart with his next words: Bound by blood, the **King** hath ne'er a reason not to trust and love his own and only... **brother**.

Salt on raw wound; her chest constricted, making her gasp almost doubling over in pain, but then she swore she would not give him the satisfaction of her weakness again. She gripped the stoned sill tight, channeling her grief and anger through that mental link and threw at him more violent images of things she vowed to deliver should he continue with this perversity. Yet in her hearts of hearts, she knew her threats made little difference and it was foolish to believe he would take serious heed. Despite all the Evils that he had committed, the King would forgive him. The punishment that he had meted out for the grievance and discord caused in Arda was a mere slap on the wrist, which was not to say that the bond of kin had compromised his loyalty and judgment. The King did what he did because in his mind and heart capacity, it was a fitting punishment.

This King did not fully understand Evil.

He understood that the plans his brother proposed, that that part of Music he wove did not fully align with Ilúvatar's will and that his brother seek for a course different than that was designed for him, one that was paved with sorrow, grief and fiery anger. But the King had not fully understood the reasons, the magnitude of his misdeeds and his evil ways or the implications. To truly understand a foul being such as he would mean touching Evil itself - living and breathing every moment of it, delving into the darkest recesses of his sick, twisted mind - and the King had barely scratched the surface. Trusting to a fault, he saw in everyone a redeeming quality, the faint flecks of unpolished silver hidden deep in a mount of dark ashes. He gave second chances, a third, a fourth and as many times as anyone needed to lead them back to the path of righteousness.

So it was a different kind of innocence enshrouding him; not that of the mind like Ulmo's but that of the heart - to believe wholeheartedly and fervently in the goodness of everyone in spite of the evident failings and risks - and never had anyone accused him of a flagging faith. He returned love and loved selflessly without question for he believed it was just because... that no one should exist without knowing love. And love them unconditionally - accepting one's merits and shortcomings - he did. For Manwë Sulimo, the King of Arda, cursed or gifted with the goodness in his heart, love and loving had always been effortless.

It was this virtue of his that pulled her to Manwë more than anything else; it was the same virtue that Melkor seek to corrupt and bring him over to his favor. Manwë could not refuse him any more than he could refuse her; he trusted them both with his heart: one bound by blood, the other by the sanctity of marriage. But he could not see past his blinding trust and the love in his purest heart, and little by little, she could see the evils that Melkor had secretly planted, and she wept bitterly at the liberties he took upon Manwë on the guise of trust and love that should not have come to pass.

How Manwë could love him was beyond anyone's understanding except, of course, Ulmo's, yet even he questioned the wisdom of their intimate attachment for his mind calculated little benefit and only more sorrow. Melkor was, as Ulmo aptly put it, poison. His evils it seemed then had reached even the Valar, dividing them in thoughts, and left them in a state of unrest. Most of the Valar had whispered their disapproval - Tulkas Astaldo, the most vocal of them, had predictably yelled his frustrations - into Ulmo's patient ears, hoping that he would use his better position to persuade the King to see reason.

Thus Ulmo rose from the waters in the Outer Ocean, albeit reluctantly, to foster amity back between the Valar lest the conflict reached the point of no return, and he gave his quiet counsel to Manwë as was asked of him. And more still he gave to the rest of the Valar, not to take matters into their own hands but to obey Manwë's judgment for those who will defend authority against rebellion must not themselves rebel.

_Fools of the innocents!_ She was always and perhaps forever doomed to be surrounded by fools! If it were left to her, she would have Melkor chained for all eternity, cast back into prison in the fastness of Mandos where no Elf, nor Vala, nor mortal Man could escape. And yet here he was, walking freely about the land as though his name were stamped on it; his very presence mocking their sacred union! Bah! If it were left to her, she would have him scream, suffer in agony and more for all his sins! Even Death would have been--

"--Dark thoughts thee harbor," a voice whispered from behind her, gently reminding her that she was not alone, nor was it time and place appropriate to entertain such thoughts. She had almost forgotten her place. "Tell me, fair Queen, whence springs this deep despair?" _...that thou art so possess'd with murderous hate._

It was perhaps the soothing tone of his voice, how the gentle lilt lent him an assumed appearance of profound understanding and empathy to whatever grievance she suffered. In her mind, she understood it was all a lie - all lies - yet with those few words alone, her anger was stolen again from her, and she almost cried in frustration when an unwelcome lull of peace swept over her heart. _Why thou wouldst not let be me in peace? Why thou wouldst not leave me to my anger!_

She turned sharply to face him again; the need to slash out at him just about overridden by the resignation of their impending talk that could no longer be stalled. There had been many things left unsaid between them since that one miserable incident, but she did not wish for this confrontation now. She knew if (or should she say **when**) that time comes they both come to blows, there was no mistaking who would come out the victor, and she hated how their every conversation had inadvertently become a contest of power though she would guiltily admit the fault was more hers to bear.

From the day when he rejected her proffered love, she had hardened herself against him and she promised she would not give him the means to hurt her again. Words were kept sharp and curt, smiles rarely offered, and most times, she had gone out of her way to avoid him completely whenever he returned from the Sea. She hated him for losing her heart to him. She hated him because she feared her love for him still burned strongly and he could without doubt and effort ripped her life's happiness, her heart and soul away, and the fool would not even know it.

"Varda?" Worry worked heavily into that one word, and for the second time in her immortal life, there was nothing she could do to keep her fragile world from crashing down on her then.

Wouldst it not be easy to give up? To give in?, a dark voice snickered all knowing. Thou need but only to take him! Take him! Or wouldst thou rather **I** take Ulmo for my own?

Appalled that she did not sever the connection too soon, she mentally lashed out a deafening "Silent!" at Melkor and then corrected her error, but not before she heard soft laughter, mocking her in full contempt.

It was no a secret to Melkor the depth of her feelings towards Ulmo, and he knew what others did not also suspect: Melkor was the not her worst enemy. Measure for measure, the hatred she bear for him was nothing compared to the hatred she bear for Ulmo, and in an odd way Melkor felt a sense of kinship with the guarded Vala.

Having nothing to offer but a truce and some semblance of friendship, which Ulmo had hesitantly accepted (wiser that he was to underline hard terms and conditions to their "friendship"), Melkor found him a delightful company for debate, and whenever the opportunity presented itself, they would play a quiet game of chess, discuss on the administration of Arda, or simply spend the day, walking in the gardens. His brother was overjoyed to find the two putting their differences away for friendship, and Melkor remembered with unease and embarrassment how glad he had felt for putting a wide smile on Manwë's face.

Yet his intention was not altogether noble for while it had given him pleasure of Ulmo's friendship, it gave him greater pleasure knowing he had in his hands one whom Varda most coveted. If the dishonor he had brought upon her through his sordid relationship with Manwë had sickened her, witnessing his friendly and easy banter with Ulmo was something altogether too vile to be put into words. It was hilariously curious how "accidental" brushes against skins could rile the Queen, and he took extra delight in indulging his tentative touches and gentle kisses on the cheeks, made even easier with Ulmo's emotional handicap.

And see how the great Vala had fallen!

_Ulmo had no right to pretend he cared!_ She lost Ulmo even before she had him, and the humiliation of her loss of her good sense, her heart, her pride and her love multiplied, knowing what Melkor knew, and she thrice cursed Ulmo for her current disposition. _Eru, lend me thy strength! What manner of a wife am I to yearn the touch and the love of another!_ With a muffled sob, she brought both hands to her face, hiding the warm tears that flowed traitorously down her cheeks, hiding her shame of her love.

But there was not much anyone can hide from Ulmo that would not stay hidden, and there was no strongbox of a mind that had ever locked him out. He could have easily gone through this examining without any of the prudence and deliberation for he could pluck the answers straight from their thoughts and by his will alone, raped their minds as she did Melkor's. But by virtue of respect and honor to his Queen, he was asking her of her troubles, and telling him to leave proved to be ill-effective now that his curiosity was aroused; he would not let the matter lie easily... Not when he could sense even darker emotions swirling in her heart, slowly poisoning her spirit.

He had tilted his head a little; his mind casually picking up on the strayed threads of thoughts that she could not conceal from him, and he frowned in confusion. All the while she was mentally rebuking herself in self-pity, he was thinking how he could barely recognize her. This cloak of hatred did not suit her, and the dimmed colors of her spirit worried him further.

It had only been a few years since he had last seen her; surely she could not have been much changed? Granted he had not studiously kept up with the ongoing between Varda and Manwë, having other matters of importance to look into, (and he did not guess that Varda still held affections for him or that he was the cause of her distress for he thought he made himself understood when he had explained rather lengthily the many reasons why such a union was ill fated and would accomplish nothing except bring forth more misery between them) but he had heard from Salmar that that the royal couple's relationship had been of late strained what with her possessiveness over the free-spirited King and his illicit liaisons.

Silly Vala. Had he not warn her not to let her jealousy ruin all chance of happiness she seek? Had she not realize that she had Manwë on a very long leash and that whatever his detours, dead-ends and endless explorations, she was still his only destination? "The fault is not his; he is not at all difficult to love--", he started in his all-knowing voice that Varda had grown to despise.

"--Deny that thou bear'st the same love?" she interrupted, and he was slightly taken aback, sensing her hatred directed at him, and he wondered what he had done to warrant it.

Her soft, malleable voice had hinted hard steel that promised of a dire consequence should he dare deny the censure. _It hath **all** been his fault!_ she reasoned quite unreasonably. If Ulmo had accepted her, she would never have stumbled into this mess! She would not have to come to face her weakness for him and reminded of it ever so often! She hated this weakness, and in her hatred, she sought to make herself stronger and more powerful until this need completely devoured her. She craved for power above all else, and it came conveniently in the form of Manwë.

It had been Ulmo's fault! If it weren't for him, she would not have learnt to care for another who in her opinion more careless with her heart than Ulmo could ever be.

Varda snorted in disgust. Her moods had been irritable lately, and tonight of all nights, she did not care for childish games; she dared him to deny his love: "Thou love him!"

This cold, cruel Vala loved him; she knew that even as she suspected he maybe more capable of other emotions than he cared to reveal. Or in the case of Ulmo and his perpetual state of ignorance, perhaps he simply did not know he was capable of feeling, ergo having nothing to reveal at all. But Varda recognized love anywhere. Maybe it was love that not in the same context as the others, perhaps not as passionate or as ardent or even sexual, an odd kind of love reserved only for the likes of him, but_... **he** loves **him** as he is loved in return._

That he chose to acknowledge her husband's love for him over hers had hurt her altogether too much, and her blood boiled how this one Vala had the power to will her emotions in a twist.

A strange look crossed Ulmo's face, sad, but something akin to almost pity. "Thy husband is dearest to me as is his friendship." He splayed out his hands before him, his palms facing upwards as if to tell her that she had no reason to fear him: he was no enemy. _I accept and ask nothing more._ "Manwë love'st thee, Varda. Separate thyself from thine doubts, and take heed of thy heart for thou art greater and wiser to make thyself thine own enemy."

"Think me a child? Aye, to me his love he gave but also to thee! I share his love with Eru and all of the Maiar and Ainur, the Children in Arda and Valinor, and even that abominable creature he call'st his **brother**!" Tried as she might, she could not but spat her words in heated loathing. A burst of raw power suddenly erupted from her person towards Ulmo, and its strength would surely have knocked any lesser being out into unconsciousness, but the Vala was left standing still, unaffected. If anything, her anger upped a notch when he effortlessly dispelled the disruptive energy with a simple flick of a wrist.

Ulmo found himself almost surprised at the vehemence of her tone; his forehead knitted again into a frown as if trying to fit odd pieces of a puzzle together. Grasping the intricacies on the workings of the heart required too much effort for him, favoring instead dealings with logic where the cause and consequence were more defined.

"Thou yearn for his heart?" he tried again, a little tentatively now, not wanting to provoke her again too soon. Inciting constructive anger has its uses. Only through anger, in its most passionate and truest essence, that one might accidentally reveal parts of himself that would otherwise remain hidden, but it will serve no purpose when dealing with an already irate Vala.

"I gifted him with mine yet he dost hide from me his." She held up a hand, silencing him when he tried to speak in defense of her husband. "I gifted him mine, Ulmo. All I ask is his heart! Too many times I hath tried to turn the other way, to heed thy seemingly sound advice. I hath supported his endeavors and judgments with confidence, made merry of businesses that should not hath given a chance to darken our steps and played a dutiful wife, but truth I say this now: I canst not do this anymore," she said wearily, the resignation in her voice unmistakably clear.

It did not take Ulmo long to see where this conversation was heading, and his eyes widened at the realization what she meant to do, what Salmar's words had hinted in many careless conversations and how he had dismissed them with equal interest. _But it canst not be so..._ "Thou wouldst murder him."

"Nay, 'tis my blood he wouldst bleed first! Perfect I am not! I am not **thee**! I canst not lie by his side, knowing his heart lies elsewhere!" Varda screamed in reply, no longer caring for her façade of a Queen's decorum.

Shaking his head, as if denying the dreaded consequence of yet to come, Ulmo continued as if in a trance, "Thou wilt kill him." He supposed what he 'felt' now was **unreasonable** fear though he had yet to examine further this thing they call 'emoting'. It was fear stemmed from an atypical miscalculation of events and people by relying far too much credit and importance on their mundane patterns and, of course, the now obviously flawed assumption that they would faithfully continue their routines. His concern for his friend mounted his fear, and it did not sit well that he had misjudged his players. It was a mistake that was simply unacceptable, and there was a touch of helplessness and hopelessness that he decided he did not like this business of 'feeling' at all.

"Thou wilt kill him!" Ulmo roared, his voice hitching. But what was it they said about fears? If you face your fears, if you speak it aloud, it will not conquer you. While he saw no rationalization from speaking his fear aloud, he found already his quick mind was devising ways to prevent the unpleasant chain of events, and his silver eyes shone a frightening gleam. "Stay thee must, never to leave his side! Thou wilt be happy! As Eru is my witness, I wouldst see thou art happy! Thou must stay!"

Varda retreated a step, feeling a little fearful and uncertain how the situation would now unfold for she had never seen Ulmo unleash the madness of his rage or that he was even capable of feeling such adulterated hate. There was something even worse than confronting another in their anger, and that was to foolishly draw against them in their brief lapse of sanity. His hatred rolled out of him in tumultuous waves, ruthlessly crushing and suffocating all in its wake, and now that his over-taxed patience finally gave way to fiercer fury, Varda almost staggered by its unexpected weight.

The predictability of his thoughts and actions had long been a source of comfort for her to confidently play her role in accord, easier to hide behind her mask of indifference; this abrupt transformation had not only shaken her, but it had lifted the veil that had shielded her eyes for so long.

How could she let herself be so deceived?

If there was any question as to whether Ulmo felt anything at all, then let her cast those doubts away forever! For until today, never had she seen anyone displayed an irresponsible consciousness of power from passion alone. Passion, which now burned with a brilliant gemlike blaze, deep and chafe. It was terrifying to be at the receiving end of his uncontained wrath, yet it also excited her and gave her hope... Ulmo, despite all that was said and known about him, had shown her that he truly had a heart.

If he could feel hatred, surely he could feel... _love?_

"Ulmo!" Another voice rung out at the door, breaking the increasing tension between them, and they both turned to meet the new caller.

"Manwë." Ulmo blinked somewhat in daze; Manwë's unexpected presence had charmed down insanity, and slowly the usual cool sobriety returned in his eyes. He looked thoroughly confused and genuinely disturbed by his earlier behavior. "I hear not thee enter," he mumbled.

"Surely it is not a need to announce my entrance in my private chambers?" Manwë crossed the room to his best friend's side, laughing heartily. He had hoped to tease a smile from the beautiful blonde, but Ulmo only shook his head; a forlorn smile would be his only gift tonight.

His behavior puzzled Manwë; Ulmo had always greeted pleasantly: it was one of the social deportments of his favorite and tried persona. Manwë's gaze shifted to his wife, and then returned to his friend, sensing something terribly amiss, yet not quite knowing why and how to diffuse the situation. He lifted a hand to Ulmo's face, cupping a pale cheek and almost sighing in relief when he felt a gentle pressure against his palm. The thought that he might have unknowingly fallen from Ulmo's grace and favor would have killed him. "Please," he whispered, then unlocked the gates of his mind to Ulmo as he pleaded: What sorrow thy heart carry we shall resolve it together. Do not shut me out.

"Not tonight, dear friend," Ulmo whispered back his apologies and closed his eyes, feeling a strange weariness surged up in him.

To allow himself liberties in front of one who in all authority had a rightful claim of his friend's heart, was not only unwise as it was insensitive, it was also utterly pathetic. And it made so little sense. Furthermore, he was not fond of any whirlwind of emotions invoked in him, particularly this one. In fact, when he had carefully analyzed every discomfort, every unexplained fluttering in his stomach and the headaches and awful nausea that came with it, he swore they were the works of his friend - either deliberate or not. Swallowing a lump that seemed to be lodged in his throat, he let Manwë's touch lingered before he turned away.

Why thou turn'st thy face away for shame? the voice cried out close to desperation, triggering yet another unfamiliar ache in his chest. For all the glitters in this land, Ulmo, I wouldst deny thee not my company, though 'tis a poor reward for thine better own. Thou knowest how I love thee.

Aye, I know it only too well. Ulmo's voice was clipped and held a hint of disapproval at his friend's bold declaration; words that Varda did not take lightly, and he had no desire to turn the current state of affairs even more volatile. Yet it would seem we are not privy to this fact alone, he softly chided him.

_Varda..._I have hurt her again!

Ulmo chuckled darkly upon hearing the disbelief in his friend's exclamation. If he could not feel, at least he could guess Varda's emotional experience was not something pleasant and he was aware of her discontent. His King was quite possibly more clueless in matters of heart, and irony of ironies, Manwë was the one who was thought better in tuned with feelings and such. Blame but thyself that hast misdone to thy wife yet not wholly well-deserved to have blame. Would thou not unmake thine error but make peace with the keeper of thy heart?

Manwë stayed silent for a second. Although Ulmo could see he gave thought to his advice, he sensed that it did not fully register in his mind its importance for sure enough, his next thoughts betrayed him: Ulmo, my friend, my love, wouldst thou not stay--

--No, not tonight, he repeated; his words came out more harshly than he meant to. His eyes were still shut tight, knowing how his resolve would weaken upon seeing the hurt in his friend's eyes he caused for refusing his offer again, how much Manwë needed him tonight and his assurance in friendship as much as he needed his friend... knowing how his own eyes would mirror his. _Thou art too dear for my possessing tonight._

Yet when they opened again, they revealed nothing; the common stoic mask now etched on his face, and with a stiff bow, he quickly exited the room before Manwë could stop him.

Manwë watched his retreating back, wondering again at his friend and half-contemplating that he should come after him. Something was not quite right that night, and it was probably due to someone in this room who had clearly upset the order of peace and currently boring two holes behind his back. Manwë moved until his wife was in his line of sight and matched her glare.

"If it so pains thee, go to him," Varda spat out finally.

"I wouldst, but he wouldst not," he answered bluntly.

"And if he wishes thee to paint thy hair red..."

"I wouldst take his counsel if it were wise, though I wouldst not think it so for red dost no credit to my eye color," he replied in cheek, but the twinkle that was playing his eyes died when he did not evoke a response from his lovely wife as he had intended. Sighing, he put up both his hands in mock surrender, and a small teasing pout appeared on that handsome face. "What hath I done to cause thee displeasure, my love?"

_What hast he done? Canst he not see!_ It was as if the whole crumbling dam had broken and she no longer had any control of the words that spewed forth from her mouth. The more she spoke, the louder her voice grew and her anger rose to leaping heights. "We canst not continue to ignore thy conduct. Thy blinding generous disposition wilt leave the fates of Middle-Earth in a precarious balance! We canst not allow this!"

There was too much hatred in those words, and Manwë could feel it eating into her. For the life of him, he did not understand the cause of her unhappiness for he thought they were content and happy together. Was it not only yesterday that she had squealed in delight when he had gifted her with a jewel so precious? Was it only a dream yesterday when they whispered their love for each other after their post-coital bliss? "What hath I done to cause thee much displeasure?" he asked again.

Never say that he had not tried. When Salmar first voiced his concern over his upcoming marriage, he had taken it seriously enough to talk it over with Varda. He had watched her carefully when he spoke to her about Melkor and Ulmo, about his love for his brother and his dearest friend, but she assured him that he had naught to worry and she would loved him forever... despite everything. And he trusted her, married her, then loved her.

Like a doting husband, he showered her with many beautiful gifts of his works, spent many wonderful hours in her company, teasing, cuddling and loving when time allowed. She had filled a void that he never knew existed in his heart with her laughter and smiles, and he loved her even more. But of late those smiles grew hard and the laughter turned bitter, and he had no clue whatsoever to her change of temperament. He had tried to talk to her, and as always she had dismissed it either with a scathing remark, feigned ignorance or answered in riddles as she did now.

_Why? How?_ He feared that nothing would be enough, and soon she would leave him as her words hinted so many times, and each time he feared that her heart grew unbending to his pleas.

It was that same fear that propelled him to his feet when she turned to depart, leaving his question unanswered. For reasons he could not understand, there was a terrible knowledge that this time she would never return. In desperation, he grabbed her arm, harder than he would like and swung her back so they met each other again, eye-to-eye, their faces mere inches from each other. "What more wouldst thou hath of me, Varda! I hath given thee everything!"

"Everything and nothing." Her eyes were hard, cold and unyielding, and they bore into his soul. What had changed? Once she had been truly happy with him, but it felt so long time ago, she could hardly recall feeling it. "I have no need of thy pretty baubles, Husband Mine. Nor for all the powers thou yield. My heart is not ruled by greed."

**TBC**

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**ACT II: The Prompting of Desire (Teaser)**

As much as the Dwarf wished to remain longer basked in the sensuousness of the position that he unexpectedly found himself in, it was hardly appropriate for the Elf to engage in childish pranks... _Or a Dwarf in one of his morbid fantasy of a bound and ravished Elf. Ai, Elbereth, wouldst Thou be so cruel!_ He meant to yell again, to chastise the Elf of the apparent stupidity that only **Elves** would partake in such dangerous times, only to have the Elf pressed soft lips onto his and in that opportune moment, slipped a tongue in, delving deep into the warm cavern of his mouth.

Leaning in closer to his ear, the Elf pitched his voice so the Dwarf may hear: "And now that you have **had** my tongue, dear Gimli, what say you?"


End file.
